A Fan of His
by phieosophy
Summary: This is for PBuG. 1,142 words.


Everyone remembers the girls. They were an inescapable presence, almost as omnipresent as the Bulgarian scarves. What with the sighing, autographs and suggestive smiles, suffice it to say the girls were openly infatuated. But the girls weren't the only ones. There was Michael Corner, who furtively asked Krum to sign a scowling poster. And Ron Weasley, torn between adulation and jealously. And Oliver Wood, whose admiration of how Krum looked riding a broomstick wasn't purely technical. Or pure at all, really. Oliver managed to attend every task in the tournament, even around the grueling Pudddlemere practice schedules. No one remembers Oliver ever saying a word to Viktor Krum. Because he never did. Until now.

It's a lovely wedding, though Oliver hasn't quite adjusted to the feeling of being surrounded by protection spells. It's a bit similar to having water in your ears, sound doesn't seem to work the same way, and he feels a bit off-balance. Of course, the Firewhiskey might be playing a role. He takes another sip, and gingerly tilts back in his spindly white chair. The setting sun flares against the gold poles of the canopy, and there is a gaggle of veela dancing suggestively, but Oliver Wood's eyes are fixed elsewhere. His gaze hasn't strayed far from a burly, slightly duck-footed six-foot streak all evening. Right now, Oliver is gaping at a spot slightly to the left of one of the Weasley cousins. The spot looks sulky, dark eyebrows forming a furrowed v shape. "Vot is the point of being an international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?" the spot (generally known as Viktor Krum) mutters to the Weasley, and sits at a table near Oliver's, and takes a long sip from one of the glasses abandoned there. Oliver knows Krum wasn't really asking a question, but he can't just sit there all night, drinking and watching. So he answers.

"Well," Oliver says, "there is the part where you're being paid to play Quidditch."

Krum turns around curiously. "Oh, Oliver Vood," he says. He pauses. "Do you still love to play as much as that?"

Oliver nods without thinking.

Krum still looks gloomy. "I saw your match against Vimbourne. You vere very good."

Oliver flushes. "Er—thanks. Nothing on you, of course."

Krum sighs heavily. "I am not so good as I vas. I am getting slow. And fat."

Oliver can't keep down his smile. Krum's harsh judgment of his own talents are infamous, and widely contradicted. He's was consistently ranked among the top ten Quidditch players in the world. As to getting fat, Oliver has seen that Witch Weekly cover. Oliver actually bought the issue. There is an impressive photo spread on pages twenty-three to twenty-seven. Krum is not fat at all.

"Vot are you smiling about?" Krum says.

Oliver flushes again. He must not mention the Witch Weekly cover. "I-er-" he begins, "I was just thinking that you still look pretty good to me."

Krum looks surprised, and a little bit flattered. "I look good to you?" he repeats. Then his lips curl into smile.

Oliver blushes brighter. "I meant on the Quidditch pitch," he amends embarrassedly. "Your Plumpton Pass is incredible. And no other living player feints the way you do. You have great moves."

Krum is still smiling.

The tops of Oliver's ears are burning now. "I mean, the way you handle your broomstick."

Krum actually laughs at that. "You are a funny guy, Oliver Vood. And you are a very good keeper. Don't tell Zograf, but I think that you are a better keeper than he."

Oliver is smiling now too. "That really means something, y'know. Coming from you. I mean, you're one of the greats. There was Wronski, Plumpton, and now, Krum."

"You think I am one of the greats?" Krum's eyebrows dive toward each other. He looks at Oliver seriously, his deep-set eyes unwavering. "You don't think I am, vot is it you say, past my prime?"

"No," Oliver responds, "no, I don't."

They sit for a moment. Krum's finished his first drink, and he is examining one of the other glasses. Apparently it passes muster. He drinks from it, and looks at Oliver, and Oliver isn't sure if he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing and he's had maybe one Firewhisky too many.

"If you're past your prime, I should be in retirement," Oliver says, "I'm a year older than you."

"How is it that you know how old I am?" Krum says.

"I read your biography."

"So you are a fan of mine, Oliver Vood?"

"Yeah, I suppose I am."

"Are you a, vot is that vord," Krum pauses "are you a groupie?"

Krum spits the last word.

Oliver chokes slightly on the last of his drink. He looks sideways at Krum.

"They follow me everywhere. There is probably a group of them outside the protection spells now. They do not care for my skills as a player, they just want me to sign things. Because I am famous, I think. I am sick of it."

"I haven't really had any groupies," Oliver says. He has fans, but it's not as though he's receiving inappropriate letters or lingerie by post.

"It vas not so bad at first. It vas like a stroke to my ego," Krum says. "Especially since I do not think I am so good looking." Krum moves on to his third drink, a half-empty glass of some pink concoction with a piece of pineapple stuck on the rim. "You," he gestures at Oliver with his drink, "are good-looking. But you might like to try groupies. Perhaps I could be your first groupie."

"I don't think you can be my groupie if you're more famous than I am," Oliver says.

"Vhy not?' Krum says. He doesn't sound angry any more, and Oliver can't think right now, the way Krum is looking at him. He seems closer. Oliver is certain his chair was a table away before, and now he's so close Oliver could reach put his hand and--

"I—er—it just isn't done."

"Vhy not? I like you a lot. I think I vill be your groupie.I vill be your biggest fan. That's vat they all say, you vill see. But I vill make it true. I think I vill start right now."

He is leaning toward Oliver, his drink still in hand.

Oliver feels like he is going to lose his head completely in a moment. "What vill—will—you start?"

"Vat do you think all your biggest fans dream about?"

"Meeting me?"

"Something more than that, I think." Krum's head is practically on Oliver's shoulder. He can feel his breath against his neck. He feels like there's a snitch trapped in his chest, and like he's flying a million kilometers a mile, and he holds very still.

"Something—something more?" Oliver asks, incapable of forming complete sentences.

Krum moves a centimeter closer, and his hair brushes Oliver's cheek. He tilts his head to meet Oliver's eyes. His jaw is resting on Oliver's, a suggestion of stubble just beneath the skin pricks Oliver's chin. "I live in Bulgaria," he says, "but I have an apartment here."

"Yes." Oliver still can't move, he can hear his own breathing, as though he's been playing Quidditch hard for hours. "Yes," he says again. He can't remember if Krum asked him out loud, and he doesn't care.

It doesn't seem like Krum cares much either. He ditches the remainder of his pink cocktail and grabs Oliver's hand and leads him away. Fast. The pair brushes past old Xenophilius Lovegood as they walk from beneath the canopy. They are just out of earshot when Shacklebolt's patronus arrives, and hardly hear the ensuing commotion. Maybe it's the whisky, or the wedding, or displaced Veela charm. Maybe it doesn't matter. Oliver is holding onto Krum's hand hard enough to break bones, and Krum is running more than he is walking now, and Oliver is staying close, and they are past the Weasleys' wards and they are apparating. The night is whirling around them, pressing against them. And they are in a dark room, stumbling down hallway, in the bedroom. And their clothes are yanked off, and they crash together. And they arch and shiver and Krum says "Call me Viktor."

"Viktor," Oliver breathes, and blushes, and kisses, and clutches.

They are sleeping, a mess of strong legs and firm stomachs, tangled sheets and discarded clothing. The moon has crept off, and the sun is looking in through the window. They are curled together. Viktor yawns and Oliver stretches. And freezes. His eyes trace their way up to his companion's face, skitter past the eyes, dart away. Oliver pulls away. Viktor pulls his hand. "Oliver," Viktor says scratchily. Maybe he was going to say more, but he said enough. "Viktor," Oliver says, sounding embarrassed and delighted all at once. And that was that.

Everyone knows about the girls, screaming and climbing into through bathroom windows, tossing lacy undergarments. But there are boys too. And sometimes the boys get lucky.


End file.
